by A. J. Crofts
‘Do you want to try it on? You look about the same size I was then.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I wasn’t sure I was quite ready for such an intimate moment with Maggie.
‘Go on,’ she coaxed. ‘I dare you!’
I giggled stupidly, excitedly, like we were naughty schoolgirls raiding a grown-up wardrobe together. ‘OK.’
She helped me into it and it felt as wonderful as it looked. She must have been exactly the same size as me when she was my age because it fitted perfectly, like Cinderella’s slipper.
‘You should wear it to the Baftas,’ she said. ‘That way at least you’ll get the press coverage, even if you don’t get the award.’
Chapter Seventeen
Once the news got out that I was up for an award all the big London designers contacted me, trying to tempt me to wear one of their dresses. I went to see them all because it was such a laugh. It was like being a little girl with the biggest dressing-up cupboard in the world, but I didn’t like many of the frocks they tried to talk me into. What surprised me was how grown up some of them made me look. I didn’t think I was ready to look like that yet. I would have felt like a fraud swanning up the red carpet in some slinky Valentino or Chanel number. But that didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy all the attention I got from their public relations people, all the champagne they plied me with while incredibly posh people rushed around suggesting jewellery I should borrow and shoes I should try.
It was like they were all looking at me and none of them could see that I was just a south-London girl who’d got lucky. Through their rose-tinted shades they seemed to be seeing someone like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, while I still felt like Steffi from the squat.
None of the things they showed me was a patch on Maggie’s dress. By the end of our evening together I had actually felt quite fond of her. I mean, I didn’t want to think too hard about the state of her maternal instincts or her morals, but as a friend I thought she might turn out to be a bit of a laugh. As a gesture I said I would be happy to be filmed for her make-over documentary if she thought it would help to pull in a few more viewers. It seemed to me she was going through an awful lot of agony just for one more shot at the big time, so maybe she deserved a bit of support, especially as it was no skin off my nose (no pun intended there).
Quentin rang me the next day to see if I had been serious about the offer. Now that I knew he was an old friend of Maggie’s I felt a bit of an obligation to be nice to him, like I might be to a lechy old uncle at a wedding. It was set up for me to come along to see her once the transformation was done, so they could film my reaction.
‘I’ve got a lot of plans for your mother,’ he said. It sounded funny to have her referred to like she was a big part of my life, but I let it pass. ‘And your friend Pete.’
‘Pete?’
‘We’re getting together a record deal for him. He’s very talented.’
‘You’re behind that?’
‘Absolutely. I told you no one escapes me for long.’
I had mixed feelings about that. It did seem like he was snooping around every part of my life, but at the same time I was happy to think that Pete might be getting his big break because of me. I felt that made up a bit for me messing him around with Luke.
After the first visit to Maggie’s I found myself thinking about her a lot, and thinking about her led to me getting back in a taxi again a few evenings later. This time I went armed with flowers and was shocked to see her eyes watering up when I gave them to her. I guess it had probably been a while. She had her wig on, which made her look less shocking, and the plasters were coming off, although her skin still looked terribly raw. She had lost the dark glasses and her eyes had scars all round them where the surgeon had removed the loose skin. She’d just spent the day at the dentist having major stuff done to her teeth and the immaculate white results looked a bit shocking, like a brand-new Bentley parked in the middle of bombsite.
‘I’ve got to do it, haven’t I?’ she said once we were sitting down with the gin bottle.
‘Do what?’
‘Give up smoking. I can’t put myself through all of this and then turn everything yellow again, can I?’
‘Might be a bit of a waste.’
Not knowing what to do with her hands without a constant supply of cigarettes, she took too many nervous sips at her glass and was having to refill it while I was still only halfway down mine.
‘Were you ever married?’ I asked.
‘Came close a few times, in the early days, when rich men were still taking an interest. I worked at a casino in the West End as a croupier and had a couple of interesting proposals there.’
‘Why didn’t you, then?’
She narrowed her eyes and stared at me and for a moment I thought she was going to tell me to mind my own business. ‘Couldn’t imagine giving up my ambitions. What man would be willing to put up with a woman hustling her way up through the show-business jungle? If I’d married I would’ve had to admit defeat on all that; give up my dream.’
We both fell silent at that, me thinking about the fact that I’d given up Luke and her probably thinking about a lot more than that.
‘Can you understand that?’ she asked eventually.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Not many women can. Most of them, by the time they get to my age, think I’ve made all the wrong choices. They look at this –’ she gestured round the room ‘– and they compare it to their big houses and their family holidays and their big fat pensions, and they think I’m deluded. But they’ve never known what it feels like to be standing in a spotlight with every pair of eyes in the room on you as you dance or sing or whatever. Or, if they have, they’ve forgotten it. They’ve forgotten what it feels like to be the centre of attention. Would I rather be spending my days cooking meals, doing school runs and going to coffee mornings?’
She left the question unanswered and I waited for her to go on.
‘I know I haven’t made it yet, but I still could. Every day that I wake up there’s a chance that something amazing will happen; a hit record or a television job, something that will be the big break I need to get back on top.’
‘Did you act, then?’
‘Still do when I can get the jobs. It’s usually background work but sometimes I get a line and you never know, do you? I played a patient in Casualty a year or so ago, but they made me up to be dying of cancer so you’d never have known. If this make-over programme does OK it could lead to something else. Maybe I could end up as your neighbour at The Towers.’
I laughed politely, but I actually felt a tremor of anxiety, like she was threatening my private territory. I was happy to spend time with her as long as it was here, in her dingy basement, which I could escape from at any time. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about having her in my life any more than that. I was shocked by my readiness to reject her as quickly as she had once rejected me. She topped up my glass. If she had seen the horror on my face she didn’t mention it.
‘What other stories has Quentin sold for you in the past?’ I asked.
‘Kiss and tell, you know the sort of thing. I hung out with the pop groups in the 1970s, and with a few footballers later on. There was a politician once. The media loves all that. Stories about Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies; names that won’t mean much to you now but were big in their time.’
‘Didn’t you feel guilty about grassing on your lovers?’
‘They always benefited in the end – raised their profiles in the media, came out looking like super-studs.’
‘What about their marriages?’
‘If they were screwing girls like me on the side their marriages were pretty fucked anyway, don’t you think? Some girls I knew would encourage their lovers to get divorces and marry them, and then take them to the cleaners later. At least I never did that.’
‘Most people end up getting married and then staying together, though, don’t they?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. But then
most people give up on their dreams quite quickly, maybe before they’ve even left school. I never wanted to do that.’
‘How do you know that your dreams aren’t just fantasies?’
‘Well, you don’t, until they come true. But having fantasies can be fun too. I’m not sure most people’s reality is that great.’
It felt like I was talking to a real-life, older version of Nikki. Maggie was a one-woman research project for an aspiring young actress.
‘What about you?’ she changed the subject. ‘What was the story behind the boy with the gun?’
‘Pete? He was my first love, childhood sweetheart, but he got too much into the drugs, frazzled his brain. He was sweet, though.’
‘Yeah, but a gun. Fucking hell, Steff …’
‘I know, but it’s all calmed down now. Quentin’s trying to get him a music career.’
She laughed. ‘That man never misses a trick. With Quentin behind him it just might happen. And what about the pop singer?’
‘Luke? I’ve been in love with him since I was 12.’ I grinned sheepishly.
‘Ah, so you have fantasies too. Or is it a dream come true?’
I shrugged, not wanting to let her into that part of my life – not yet, anyway. It was still all much too raw and painful. I changed the subject.
‘Did you mean it when you said I could wear your dress for the Baftas?’
Chapter Eighteen
I have to admit, the day of the Baftas was a bit of a buzz. They really know how to make you feel like a star. Cars appear magically to ferry you around and an army of hairdressers, make-up artists and stylists are put at your disposal. But by the time we got that far I had a pretty good idea of how I wanted to look. This was like standing in front of Mum’s bedroom mirror with the dressing-up clothes – times about five million. Having decided on using Maggie’s dress, confident that no one else would have anything like it, I was going to go for a fairly stripped-down look in the face department, but with lashings of eyeliner and mascara; sort of Romany version of Twiggy meets Dusty Springfield and Amy Winehouse, if you get what I mean.
Gerry said he thought it was a good idea, although he probably would have said that if I’d suggested going as a sack of King Edwards. He’d found himself a tuxedo in the Oxfam shop, which he was teaming up with his best pair of trainers (even I thought his favourite desert boots would not be appropriate, as much due to the stink they gave off as anything else). Our main problem was keeping his shirt tucked into the rather slack waistband of the trousers, but in the end I gave up even bothering to mention it and concentrated on trying to bring his hair under control.
‘Your mum’ll be watching this,’ I reminded him. ‘You want to make her proud, don’t you?’
He didn’t disagree, but he didn’t exactly help either. It was lovely to have his soothing presence there beside me and I forced myself not to think about how much more lovely it would be if it was Luke. I hadn’t heard anything from him since the split and I didn’t contact him either, not wanting him to think I was going to be one of those girls who had trouble letting go. There were moments when I thought I was being pathetic and endangering my whole future happiness just by being too proud to beg him to have another go. But then I would decide it would be more pathetic to be clinging on if he really wasn’t going to be able to hack me having a career. Back and forth, back and forth, feeling guilty all the time about even thinking such thoughts when Gerry was around and being so totally sweet. Why does life have to be so fucking complicated all the time?
I could see as the day progressed that some of the professionals in the styling department were a bit doubtful about the dress. I dare say they gave Diane Keaton the same sort of looks the year she went to the Oscars dressed as Charlie Chaplin, and I’m sure there were people who told Cher she was overdoing it when she wore that spider’s web of a frock to accept her Oscar – but which are the outfits that stick in the memory? As you can see, I have made a bit of a study of these sorts of things, never happier than when settled down in front of an awards ceremony practising my own imaginary acceptance speeches. The funny thing was that, now I was actually nominated, I no longer had a prepared speech. I’m not sure if that was because I truly didn’t believe I had a chance or for some deeply superstitious reason.
Walking down the red carpet towards the Palladium was really wicked. I’d been down a few before, premieres and that sort of thing, but this was different. This was the big time; lines of security men holding back the banks of media, flaming torches to light our way, limos timed to arrive at exactly the right moment, the whole mini-Oscar experience. Lush. As our car drew up at the end of the carpet and I saw some of the other dresses ahead, I had a momentary frisson of terror that I might have made a terrible mistake – was it possible to be too different and to stand out too much? But by then it was too late. The car door opened and I stepped out, with Gerry shambling behind, his hair looking like it could give Russell Brand a run for his money.
As we progressed, the weirdest thing seemed to happen. The cheering grew louder and the barriers seemed to sag towards us. Police and security guards who had been standing around like waxworks suddenly sprang into action, trying to hold people back. I couldn’t work out what was going on. Cameras were going off and a platoon of microphones was charging towards us:
‘Steffi!’
‘Nikki!’
‘Over here, Steff!’
‘Where’s Luke?’
‘Where’s your mum?’
‘How’s Maggie?’
‘Any sign of Pete?’
‘Who’s the bloke with you?’
It was like a scene from The Day of the Locust. (It’s a good movie, if you’re into the whole Hollywood Dream thing. Gerry had introduced me to the book and then searched out the DVD to distract me one evening when I was feeling low. Gerry has studied the camera angles of virtually every film ever made.) For a moment I felt a genuine fear that we were going to be trampled underfoot. It became confusing as more police rushed forward and Gerry put his arms around me as we ran together towards the entrance, other celebrities scattering in our wake. There was no chance of stopping to answer any of the questions.
As we got to the Palladium steps another line of security men assembled between us and the crowd and I turned to give them all a wave. I didn’t want people to think I was becoming all snotty and starry and wasn’t willing to be friendly. The flashing of cameras was almost blinding as the police moved the paparazzi back behind the hastily reassembled barriers and the management of the event ushered us inside. Although the officials all looked anxious and unsettled, it was obvious they were enjoying the excitement. A scene like this would ensure the awards went to the top of every news bulletin that night; they just didn’t want it to be because there had been any injuries. Getting on the news meant more exposure for the programmes being honoured, which would inevitably lead to more bums on seats and advertising sales; cash registers ringing all round.
There were more photographers and reporters inside, the honoured ones, and hordes of friendly faces from The Towers and rival soaps, as well as some even more famous television faces. People were talking to one another about the loss of crowd control outside, as if we had all just been through the Blitz together. Everyone was very sweet about the dress, although I suspect most of the women were more impressed I had the nerve to wear something so outlandish than they were with the actual history of the design. Gerry was the perfect consort, staying a couple of paces behind, grinning amiably at the few people who bothered to look in his direction. It would have annoyed me – the way everyone showed no interest in him because he was ‘just’ a cameraman – if I hadn’t been so sure he was totally unbothered. Luke might not have been able to handle the thought of being in my shadow at these sorts of events, but Gerry obviously thrived there like a cheerful sort of mushroom.
Once we were inside the auditorium there were other members of the production team for Gerry to talk to until it was time for us
all to settle in our seats. The atmosphere was a bit like a cross between the last day of a school term and a works outing. Other people’s partners were looking a bit left out while everyone else talked shop, discussing the people in the running for all the different awards, giggling and bitching. Everyone inside had heard about the crowds breaking through the barriers, but no one seemed to have connected it to the moment when we arrived. Now that it was over, I wasn’t even sure that it had had anything to do with us. Maybe it had just been a coincidence; after all, why would the crowd behave any differently for me and Gerry?
It has to be said, live awards shows are pretty boring unless they’re about you or people you know. The bits you see on telly are really just the highlights. For every recognisable face there are about ten men in dinner suits accepting awards for something technical. Not that I’m dissing the production guys, they are just as important as the actors – more important, actually – but watching them collect awards isn’t so great. After what seemed like an age, we got to the acting ones and as the moment for ‘actress of the year’ drew closer I felt my stomach tightening. I told myself it was ridiculous because I didn’t have a chance of winning, but just the thought that I might pull a bad face at the moment of losing was making me want to shit myself. What is the best face to pull when the camera turns on you two seconds after you’ve learned that someone else has got your award? Fixed smile is probably the best, and lots of enthusiastic clapping. So I was bracing myself for that when I heard the words.
‘And the winner is … Steffi McBride.’
For a few seconds I couldn’t make sense of it; I couldn’t remember what a winner was supposed to do, where I was supposed to go, what I was supposed to say. All those years of practising thank-you speeches in Mum’s bedroom mirror abandoned me and I was left with an empty void where my brain had once been. Helpful hands in the seats around lifted me to my feet and propelled me to the end of the row. Gerry gave me a huge hug, which practically knocked me back down off my feet again. He then stayed standing to cheer and whoop and wave his arms in the air as I stumbled down the aisle and was helped up on to the stage. Suddenly the world was reversed and the place where I had been sitting, almost anonymously, was suddenly a huge sea of faces, all staring up at me. Someone was shaking my hand, someone was kissing me, lights were in my eyes, music was blaring and then dying away, I had an award in my hands, I was standing at the podium and suddenly there was silence as they waited to hear what I had to say. I had nothing to say. I racked my brain for what seemed like hours but was probably just a few seconds. Nothing clever or witty came to me.